The Man Who Killed His Brother (5 page)

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Authors: Stephen R. Donaldson

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That was the wrong thing to say. All at once the voice at the other end of the line turned distant and suspicious. “Why do you ask, Mr. Axbrewder? Is she a relative of yours?”
I didn’t have any other way out, so I said, “She’s dead. I’m worried about Alathea, and I’m trying to find some kind of pattern.”
The voice was silent for a minute. Then it said carefully, “There’s no Carol Christie in the computer.”
“All right,” I said. “It was a dumb question. Tell me this. Out of all the kids who run away, how many call you? What percentage?”
“We don’t have any reliable figures, but our best estimate is only about twenty percent. We’re not as well known as we need to be.”
“Thanks.”
I hung up the phone, looked at Ginny. In spite of the AC I was sweating. But I wasn’t due for another crisis yet—and if one was coming there wasn’t anything I could do about it anyway, so I just tried to shove it out of my mind. When Ginny put down her phone, I asked, “What’ve you got?”
She pushed her list away from her. “We’re going to be busy this evening. How about you?”
“Nothing.” I sounded disgusted to myself.
“Relax,” she said. “If you found her this fast, you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself for the rest of the day.” She was jollying me—but her eyes had that worried look in them again. She gave me the impression that she was asking herself how long I could hold out without a drink.
I got up, went and faced her across the desk, and said, “I don’t like it when you look at me like that. Let’s go talk to Carol Christie’s parents.”
I was half hoping she had something better in mind. I wasn’t feeling any readier to visit them than when the idea first occurred to me. It was like calling the Drug Abuse Hotline—something in me was afraid of it. But we had to do it. We were looking for some kind of pattern, and we wouldn’t know if there was any connection between Carol Christie and Alathea unless we checked it out.
Ginny knew that as well as I did. She said, “Good idea,” and pushed herself out of her chair. She looked in Tuesday’s paper for the names of the Christies, then got their address out of the phone book. Five minutes later, we were back in the Olds.
The Christies lived quite a ways out, in what they call the North Valley. Puerta del Sol lays down its inhabitants horizontally instead of stacking them vertically, so it’s a sprawling place. And the way the population’s growing these days, there are suburbs and even industries sitting on ground that was neglected dirt ten years ago. The city spreads in all directions, but mostly north and south along the valley of the Flat River, where water is a little easier to come by.
Mr. and Mrs. Christie lived all the way out at the northern tip of the sprawl. Where the cowboy money lives. Half the people out there wear old Stetsons and plaid shirts and faded jeans and dusty boots, and if you met them on the street you wouldn’t know they’re solid gold on the hoof. Most of them probably get their money from things like real estate, but the way they dress you would think they get rich just by looking so by-God Western. Before we were within five miles of the Christies, every house we passed was an ersatz ranch, with a split-rail fence, three acres of ground, and two horses.
When we got to where we were going, we found that the Christies ran a stable, complete with riding lessons, trails, and about thirty of the mangiest-looking horses I’d ever seen. They used a converted horse trailer for an office. When we went inside, we found Mary Christie there, working on a set of books.
She looked up as we came in and said, “Howdy, folks. What can we do fer y’all?” Her cowboy twang was stretched pretty thin over an accent that sounded like it probably came from Boston. But she was dressed right in not-too-new, not-too-clean, let’s-go-muck-out-the-stalls clothes, with a red bandanna knotted around her neck.
Ginny said, “Mrs. Christie?” Her professional voice made it sound like she had every right in the world to be standing there asking personal questions. “I’m Ginny Fistoulari.” She flipped her ID out of her purse and showed Mrs. Christie the photocopy of her license. “This is Mr. Axbrewder. We’d like to ask you and your husband a few questions.”
It didn’t take much to make Mary Christie forget about horses. Ginny’s ID was enough. She practically jumped to
her feet, went to a window behind her, and jerked out, “John!” There was an edge in her voice that sounded like panic at first, but I put it down to strain. It was only two days ago that her daughter had turned up dead. Then she came and stood in front of us with her arms clutched across her stomach as if she wanted to hide it. “Questions about what? What do you want?” Her twang had deserted her.
Ginny said evenly, “We’d like to talk to you about your daughter, Carol.”
“Why?” She was as jumpy as a hophead. “What has it got to do with you?” Then she was at the window again. “John!”
Now I knew it wasn’t just strain. Mrs. Christie was afraid of something.
From outside, a man’s voice—real cowboy, this time—answered, “Ah’m comin’.” Ten seconds later he was in the trailer with us.
He was tall and rangy, like a cowboy is supposed to be, with a grizzled, weather-bitten face and a cigarette stuck in his teeth. His battered old hat was pulled down tight on his head, probably so it wouldn’t fall off when he was riding. He scanned Ginny and me, then asked slowly, “Now, what’s all this-here ruckus about?”
“They want to know about Carol,” Mary Christie said quickly—too quickly. “They want to ask questions about her.”
At that, her husband’s eyes narrowed until he was practically squinting at us. Deliberately he took the cigarette out of his mouth, threw it through the doorway. Then he said, “Naw, they don’t want to ask no questions. They was just leavin’.” If he was worried about the fact I was three inches taller and seventy pounds heavier than he was, he didn’t show it.
But I didn’t need Ginny to tell me this was no time for muscle. I just stood my ground and let her handle it.
She said, “We have good reason for asking.” If it came down to a bluff, she could match John Christie any day. “We don’t want to pry into anything that doesn’t concern us, but we’re working on a case that’s remarkably similar
to Carol’s.” Remarkably similar, hell. Both girls were thirteen—period. “If you help us, we might be able to prevent the same thing from happening again.”
She made it sound practically inevitable. But Mr. Christie wasn’t having any. “You said one thing right,” he drawled. “You ain’t gonna pry. There ain’t no case on Carol. She was a good li’l girl, and you ain’t gonna dig up no dirt on her. If other folks want to let their young’uns screw around, it ain’t no concern of mine.”
Ginny faced him squarely. “Nobody said anything about dirt. That was your idea.” Then she asked harshly, “If Carol was such a good swimmer, how did she happen to drown?”
Christie felt that. For a second, his eyes went out of focus. His hands twitched as if he were getting ready to swing at Ginny. I shifted into position to block him. But instead of moving, he just said in a dead voice, “Get the hell outta here.”
Ginny considered him for a moment, then turned to Mary Christie. The woman was staring back at her with something like nausea in her face. Sharply Ginny said, “All right. Let it happen to other girls. Why should you care? There’s just one thing I have to know.” She knew how to be tough. “Did she write to you at all after she ran away? Was there a note?”
John Christie barked, “Mary!” For a minute she just stood there, squirming with indecision and grief. Then, abruptly, she jerked open one of the desk drawers, fumbled for a sheet of paper, and handed it to Ginny.
Ginny gave it to me without looking at it. If John Christie wanted it back, it was safer with me. I put it in my pocket.
“Thank you, Mrs. Christie,” Ginny said softly. “I hope you won’t regret helping us.” Then she went to the door. “Come on, Brew. Mr. Christie thinks we should leave.”
I followed her out, half expecting Christie to jump me as I went past him. But he didn’t. He slammed the door behind us, and a second later we heard him yelling, “God damn it, woman! You want the whole fuckin’ world to know?” We could hear him until we got into the Olds and shut the doors.
I didn’t say anything. I just took out the note, and we looked at it together.
It said, “Dear Mom and Dad, I have to go away for a while. I have a problem, and I have to take care of it myself. It might take a long time. Don’t worry about me. Love, Carol.”
It was written on half a sheet of good twenty-pound bond, but the handwriting was a mess.
W
e didn’t say anything. We didn’t have to. We both knew what to do next. Ginny started up the Olds, and we headed back into the city. Hurrying. We wanted to get to Lona.
It was after four o’clock when we reached her house, so we didn’t waste any time. Ginny was better at this kind of thing than I was. I waited in the car while she went to talk to Lona.
Even that way, it took a while. Lona didn’t want to let go of her note. It was the last tangible thing she had from Alathea. But we needed the original—a copy wouldn’t do us any good. I was relieved to see it in Ginny’s hand when she came back to the Olds.
With her sitting beside me, we compared the notes. The similarity of the wording made my stomach ache, but Ginny was looking at other things. She compared the writing quickly, pointed out that the ink and scripts were different, then started to examine the paper.
Lona’s note was written on half a sheet of twenty-pound bond.
Both sheets had been neatly torn—not cut—along one edge.
When Ginny held them up to the sun, we could see that they both had the same watermark.
I said, “Sonofabitch.” Something deep in my chest was trembling. I was overdue for another withdrawal crisis.
“This doesn’t prove anything,” Ginny said stiffly. “There’s a lot of this kind of paper around. It’s a big company. It doesn’t prove anything unless these notes came from the same sheet.” She put the notes up against the sun
again, then said, “No chance. Look what happens when I put the torn edges together.”
I looked. The watermarks were facing in opposite directions. The top third of the mark on Lona’s note was cut off—and it wasn’t completed anywhere on the other sheet.
“Terrific.” I could taste bile in my mouth. The lining of my stomach wanted alcohol. Wanted to be numb. “Two thirteen-year-olds run away from home and write notes that say almost exactly the same thing on the same kind of paper, with the same kind of bad handwriting. Of course it’s just a coincidence. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“I didn’t say it was a coincidence,” she replied with elaborate patience. Just letting Axbrewder know she wasn’t senile yet. “I said it wasn’t proof.” Then she grinned—a shark’s grin, eager and dangerous. “That’s the difference between us and the police. We don’t need proof.” She threw the Olds into gear. “Let’s go talk to Encino.”
We were on the trail now—I could see it in her eyes.
I left it to her. I was thinking about the Christies. They were scared about something—and anything that could worry John Christie would probably frighten Lona to death.
We went down Mission, then crossed over on Gypsum until we hit Paseo Grande and turned right. A couple of miles down Paseo Grande we came to the new Municipal Building—the pride of the mayor, the joy of half a dozen construction companies, the flower of a couple architects, and the treasure of the bank that floated the loan. I didn’t know anyone else who liked it.
From the outside, it looks like a country club for millionaires. An ordinary citizen can no more walk in there and feel comfortable than fly to the moon. All those fountains and flower beds might’ve been a good idea, but unfortunately the main part of the building hangs over the fountains and flowers and walkways. A square mountain of white concrete leans on the back of your neck—from some angles you can’t even see what holds it up—so by the time you get to the doors and start climbing to wherever you have to go, you already feel intimidated. And of course there’s no
parking. Official cars have a private garage—ordinary citizens have to scramble for what they can get.
We were lucky—we only had to walk a couple of blocks.
Inside, there isn’t a scrap of carpet or one warm soft color in the whole place. It looks like a brand-new abattoir. Since there aren’t any windows, and the blank fluorescent lighting is always the same, you can’t tell whether it’s day or night.
I suppose I should’ve been used to it. I’d been in the city jail, up on the top floor of the police department wing, at least a couple of times. But I was always at a disadvantage here. I could never remember the names of the cops who rousted me when I was drunk. I couldn’t remember anything about them, except they always looked short. But they knew who I was. The whole situation gave me a definite paranoid feeling.
But I figured I should be pretty safe in Missing Persons. They didn’t have any reason to know me. So I just kept my coat buttoned and my hands at my sides, hiding the .45 under my left arm, and followed Ginny, trying to ignore the fact I could feel another withdrawal attack coming on.
The sergeant at the front desk issued us passes and told us where to go in the dull mumble of a man who’d spent too many years repressing a secret yen to
really
tell people where to go. We did what he told us, and a couple of corridors later we were at a glass door. The glass was safety plate with steel mesh sandwiched into it, and it said MISSING PERSONS across the top. We went in.
A Formica counter stood so close to the entrance that the door almost hit it when it opened. Behind the counter, there were four desks and a row of file cabinets. That was all. Missing Persons wasn’t a very big item in the police budget.
Three cops sat at the desks, two women and a man. The man was a sergeant, so he out-ranked the women. Of course, they made us wait. Cops always make you wait as long as they can. It’s in the Officer’s Handbook. Eventually, however, one of the women, Policewoman Rand, asked us what we wanted. Ginny asked for Sergeant Encino, using her I‘m-an-important-citizen-don’t-mess-with-me voice. The man
found himself off his butt and standing in front of us faster than he wanted to.
He was short, barely tall enough to stare at Ginny’s clavicles. He had dark olive skin that complemented his dark blue uniform, and his close-cut black hair was so tidy that you would think he trained it with a whip. His mustache was assertive but not aggressive. And he had Chicano eyes—sad, world-weary, and arrogant. Sure enough, both the name tag pinned over his left shirt pocket and the ID clipped to his right shirt pocket said, “Sgt. Raul Encino, Missing Persons.”
Ginny introduced herself, flashed her license, mentioned my name. Encino looked back at her with his face blank. That’s also in the Handbook—treat everyone like two of them and a sandwich would be just about right for lunch. “What can I do for you?” He had just enough accent to make what he said sound more interesting than it really was.
“Information,” Ginny said crisply. “We’re trying to find a young girl named Alathea Axbrewder. Her mother reported her missing eight days ago.”
Encino’s expression was perfect, as noncommittal as a rock. “Mrs. Axbrewder chose to make no complaint. We look for her daughter, of course. Each patrol officer has a description. But without a complaint—” He gave us a delicate Chicano shrug. “You understand, it is not against the law to run away from home. The girl is a minor, so we have our eyes open for her. But in a city so big as Puerta del Sol, we are unlikely to find her. Also she has possibly left the city. The sheriff’s office has been informed. What more do you want?”
With just a hint of sarcasm, Ginny said, “You assume she ran away.”
“Why not? As I have said, the city is big. Girls disappear each week. Do you think she has been kidnapped? That is doubtful. For what purpose? There has been no demand for ransom.”
That was true enough. Any hint of kidnapping, any hint at all, and this whole situation would’ve been different. For one thing, Lona would’ve had the FBI camped in her living
room. But that didn’t faze Ginny. In the same light-acid tone, she said, “I don’t know whether I’m talking about kidnapping or not. I haven’t gotten that far yet. What I’m interested in right now is thirteen-year-old girls who disappear and then turn up dead.” She was trying to irritate Encino, nag him into defending himself. Maybe spring loose some spontaneous information.
I could see the muscles along his jaw tighten, but he didn’t change his ground. “Is Alathea Axbrewder dead?”
“Carol Christie is.”
He blinked. As far as the rest of his face was concerned, he was sound asleep. “Of what interest is Carol Christie to you?”
“There’s a connection between her and Alathea.”
“Are the parents of Carol Christie your clients?”
Ginny could’ve refused to answer that. She had a right to protect her client. But I guess she didn’t see any point to it. She said, “I’ve been retained by Lona Axbrewder.”
“Then the death of Carol Christie is of no concern to you.”
“I said there’s a connection.” Ginny let herself start to sound angry. She took out the notes and put them down on the counter in front of Encino. “Both Alathea and Carol wrote to their parents after disappearing. If you look at them, you’ll see that they were written on the same kind of paper. The sheets were torn in half the same way. What they say is almost identical, and the handwriting is similar.”
“That’s most ingenious.” Encino didn’t even glance at the notes. “Unfortunately the truth remains. Carol Christie’s death can be of no concern to you. The rights of your client do not include her. Mr. Christie and his wife desire privacy.”
“Says who?”
“Their wishes were made known to the investigating officer, Detective-Lieutenant Acton.”
Investigating officer, huh? Ginny was getting somewhere. Now we knew there was enough wrong with Carol Christie’s death to interest the cops.
But she didn’t stop to chew it over. She had Encino backing up, and she kept at him.
“That’s wonderful. The Christies don’t want people to know what really happened to their daughter, so the cops clamp a lid on it. Having money is good for something after all. I just wonder what you and Acton are getting out of it.”
Encino’s composure split for a second.
“Hija de la puta.
” Before he could get it back, I reached for him. I was going to knot my fist in the front of his nice blue uniform and shake him up good. But Ginny stopped me with an elbow that almost caved in my ribs. I could feel blood pounding in my face.
The sergeant had his blankness back in place, but he couldn’t keep the rasp out of his voice. “Go away. You Anglos, you’re all the same. A girl runs away and is later found dead. There’s an investigation, and everything is kept with great propriety, even from the papers, to avoid distress for the family. But someone hires private investigators, and because they can’t do their jobs they accuse the police. It’s like that everywhere. And why? Because the girl is white. Anglo. If a Chicano girl runs away, and the mother asks for help, you Anglos say, ‘What do you expect? Look for her in the brothels.’ And if that Chicano girl is found dead, then the papers print every rumor they hear about her, true or false.” His sneer twisted his whole face. “Go away. You interfere with my work.”
My pulse was still racing, but I heard him. I picked up the notes, pulled open the door, said to Ginny, “Come on.” But she was really mad now. Leaning over the counter, she thrust her face at Encino. “I work for whoever asks me,” she said very softly. “I don’t have any control over who asks. I just take whatever they ask and give it my best shot. That’s
my
work.”
Encino jerked his head contemptuously.
“Muy bravo.”
I took Ginny’s arm, dragged her out into the corridor, and shut the door behind us. She threw off my hand. Stalked along for a minute in silence. Then she said, “That sonofabitch.”
I said, “He has a point.”
“He has orders. Somebody told him to put a lid on Carol Christie. It’s not my fault he doesn’t like it.” Then she
asked, “How come you’re so sympathetic all of a sudden? Two minutes ago you wanted to take his head off for him.”
I didn’t have a good answer to that, so I just said, “I spend a lot of time in the old part of town. Probably he’s a good cop.”
“A good cop,” she snorted. She didn’t say anything more until we got into the elevator. Then she muttered, “You big ape, you’ve got to learn to keep your temper.”
“Dear God,” I said. “Did I lose my temper? I’m pitifully sorry. It’s never happened to me before.”
She said, “Aw, shut up.” But she didn’t sound so angry anymore. After a minute, she asked, “What was that he called me?”
“
‘Hija de la puta.’
Daughter of a whore.”
She considered that briefly, then grinned. “It sounds nastier in Spanish.” When the elevator doors opened, she led the way out.
Following her toward the exit, I had a wild urge to put my arms around her and kiss the back of her neck. But when we walked out into the late afternoon, the sun hit me in the eyes like a hammer. Suddenly my head was reeling for a drink. It was coming, and there was nothing I could do about it. Except get a drink. My nerves pleaded for the stuff.
Get a drink get
a drink get
a drink.
Feel the alcohol flow like bliss through the sore lining of my stomach straight into my blood.
Usually when I go sober, I have three big withdrawal crises—along with half a dozen or so smaller ones—before my body gives up on pain and starts looking for other arguments. So far this time I’d only had one. One coming on, and after that at least one more to go. With the sun in my eyes, and my brain aching, I didn’t think I was going to make it.

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